Brine and Wed

-

A churchyard full of blame,

silk-wrapped maids with eyes
rolling in their graves,
at the children

with limbs
like twine wrapped in the
colours of limestone.

They distract,
and extract the quiet from
its corners,
too young to be
wrapped up, childish
foreigners.

It's green and ghastly,
allocated Sundays with dates
queued up vastly.
Spring is pricking the air,
it's a good excuse to be
nowhere near here.

Thrust and shuffle of
sensible skirts and freshly crisp shirts
as the regulars draw around.
I wear white (naturally,
but it feels clinical)

and the muddy skin of the water
traces patterns of every sin I've
been introduced to.
Wading in the warp and weft
of this movement only
serves to reproduce
more unhealthy/holy
thinking, assuming I'll be
perfect after I resume
normal breathing.
And assuming I'll be
clean, my mind picks
the daedal scabs of
the unseen
sinful seams that
decorate me.

The texture of the Minister is
dim and undeniable,
wooden and it resonates
the noise of his unreliable
limbs arching me backward,

the sound made while I'm dipped deeply;
strip me, heal me (but incompletely).
I'll hold your gnarled, shapeless hand while we
go there together,
underneath together.
The water sucks in a deep breath
and the sound of childish gipping, loudly
fits with my delivery,
we're delivering together.

Little gnarled shapeless hand,
substitute for heavenly fingers,
God's palm would probably
evaporate in the muddy water but
at least it wouldn't linger

like the creaky instability of
the Reverend (highly
respected, not laughed at
by the gossip silk-lined maids)
guiding me down,
so I'll be reborn, remade.

-

"Child, slick with fresh and wild
with new explanations,
a purpose that's so divine it
doesn't need a direction.
Of course you'll find a
footing, but personally I
recommend you stumble
for nothing?
Mine eyes are on you
and I got you a crown.
Silver and greenish,
like this Sunday you found
(that dipping in water
can pave out a frown,
mute the sound of you
drowning loudly for
me."

-

Churchyards are a cageful of shame,
(Next Sunday we're happy to
anounce the union of
Ms. Serving &
Mr. Unswerving.)

Pale clingy eyes and a cornflour-coloured veil,
trapped in creamed silk like a boat wearing sails.

Her course is down the salty, stony path,
confetti-foam churned by well-meaning and
faint old regulars,
irregularly thinking of the
shape of her waist (the men)
and the trim of her hip (the women)
and both delete these thoughts.
Sin slips into every
day to day,
back to back
kind of thinking; and Brothers and Sisters,
we're in a clean place,
this is not what you were taught.
We think purely or we think not.

A cream and ash contrast,
hand to hand contact
(but both hearts wrapped
around Judgement Day).
Dirty marriage is the furthest thing,
(unfulfilling, they say)
from these two Christian minds,
but temptation never cares
how far it has to walk.

-

"Child, on consideration,
balances and obligations roped around
cream and ash,
of all the things these two would
end up with it's this,
too padded with the Bible to crash.
Mine arms are worn but
always warm for those still
firm with their choice, not torn
between whether my shadow
can hide you better or if
it's too vague for anything to be
found. Look around
as wide as you want,
you can see me without
needing to.

an: vision of religion in general isn't exactly passive, i'm not atheist; rip it up, it needs con-crit.